


A Treatise on Amity

by Anacrea



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Fluff, Friendship/Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 07:53:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7161296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anacrea/pseuds/Anacrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After several days of stagnant progress on an important project, Enjolras provides Combeferre a fresh perspective, and forms one himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Treatise on Amity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Oilan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oilan/gifts).



It was not an unusual occurrence for the two of them to work by candlelight together as they each took to their own separate projects. Comfortable and companionable without being obtrusive, Enjolras found that he worked better beside Combeferre even when they weren’t working on the same project– particularly because he had someone to share his thoughts and ideas with instead of mulling them over repeatedly to himself.

Usually (and Enjolras knew it was for his own sake rather than Combeferre’s), Combeferre would stop once they’d burned their candle down about halfway and, with an only somewhat exaggerated yawn, decide that they really must head go to bed lest he fall asleep on the table. Enjolras, who had settled into this routine comfortably, would rarely object, knowing well that Combeferre had a good sense for when too much work became counterproductive.

It was less common, but not unheard of, that Enjolras would be the one to stop, usually a fair bit later, and coax Combeferre to bed, assuring him that whatever it was would still be waiting for him the next day.

Twice in as many nights they had broken that pattern, and Combeferre had insisted Enjolras go to bed without him; he was close to a breakthrough on what he was working on, and he couldn’t stop now. Yet, when Enjolras saw him next, he seemed no closer to finishing. Now, after he had returned to their shared rooms for the third day and discovered Combeferre still at work, Enjolras had taken it upon himself to find a solution to this problem.

“You must tell me what you’re working on,” he said. Combeferre startled and blinked up at him in bleary-eyed confusion, as though by speaking to him Enjolras had broken some enchantment holding him.

Enjolras reached over, pressing Combeferre’s hand into his own, and met his eyes seriously. “I would like to understand your work’s importance, particularly if it should continue to take you from me.” His tone was gentle but firm, and Combeferre nodded his head, appearing chastised.  
  
He leaned back in his chair, away from the table, and spread his papers in front of them both for Enjolras to take a look. Taking a few moments, Enjolras squinted down at the foreign words and diagrams on the pages before them, deciphering that they were describing some sort of pathology, but little else. “You know as well as I do that this may as well be Greek to me,” said Enjolras, who had not studied more than a cursory level of Greek throughout his unconventional education.  
  
Combeferre sighed in frustration. “That’s precisely the problem, Enjolras.” Perhaps seeing the somewhat-stricken expression in his eyes, Combeferre hastened to explain himself. “Pardon my phrasing; it’s no fault of yours, but mine.” He placed a hand over Enjolras’s again and squeezed gently, reassuring Enjolras but not quite setting him at ease.  
  
“It’s not your fault that I have no background in medicine,” he objected, but Combeferre raised a hand to quiet him and motioned for him to sit. Upon his doing so, Combeferre continued.

“I mean to say, this is not about you at all. Lately I have had some correspondence with a well-respected doctor who I admire very much – who is, in fact, generally admired for his medical writing. Mine is quite poor in comparison.”  
  
“He thinks badly of your work?” asked Enjolras, interrupting again. “Well, no matter how respected he may be, his opinion is worth very little to me if he doesn’t see the value of—“ He broke off, seeing that Combeferre was beginning to laugh, and smile, for the first time in the past few days.  
  
“There is no need for you to defend my honor, my dear. Settle down and allow me to tell you what I mean to.”

Enjolras frowned and crossed his arms, but allowed Combeferre to continue. When he did not immediately, but instead continued smiling at him in amusement, he pressed his lips and prompted, “ _Combeferre_.”

“Yes, yes, forgive me,” he said, not looking very contrite at all. “I admire this man not only for his technical skill, but for his belief in an ideal which I share. You know well how I value education, and my belief that scientific progress is dependent on the free spread of knowledge. He has put this idea into practice in his writing, by -- as he’s expressed to me -- endeavoring to make his works understandable even to those who are strangers to the medical profession, as long as they have some interest. I would have liked to follow in his footsteps, but instead…”

Understanding, Enjolras uncrossed his arms and reached out, touching his friend on the shoulder. “Instead, I can’t understand more than a sentence or two of it, and you feel that because of that you are failing.”

“Well, yes.” Now he did look contrite, and Enjolras felt that he would do most anything to change that.

“Yet, you are adept at explaining your knowledge. You adapt to your individual pupils; you stop yourself when you are beginning to lose them; you make even the most complicated subjects understandable to me when I allow you a moment to speak about them.”

“It is different,” insisted Combeferre, and for a moment it seemed that was all he would say, but Enjolras waited patiently, and met his eyes, and Combeferre sighed. “When I am explaining something to you -- or to anyone else, but to you most of all -- there is your reaction to take into account. I can see where your understanding fails you. And, of course, you may ask questions, where a sheet of paper cannot.”

“I understand your meaning entirely,” said Enjolras, “and it is something we share in common. Haven’t I told you on a number of occasions how much more difficult it is to write a pamphlet, to perfect the wording, than to give a speech and improvise depending on the context and the audience? And haven’t I told you, also, that your feedback is invaluable to me when I _am_ writing? I share my thoughts and my ideas, and hear your perspective on them. Is this not the same thing?”

Combeferre appeared surprised, and took a moment to consider the idea, but he shook his head and looked back at the work. “No, not quite. When you give me your thoughts, it is generally as you go along, and I understand already the context behind them. You are not distracting me from my own work by having me give a word or two. You don’t have the same understanding of this.”

“It seems to me that my lack of understanding is exactly what is needed in this situation.” Enjolras smiled at him and reached for his hand, grasping it gently. “I would like to help you, Combeferre, if I can.”

The look in Combeferre’s eyes softened at that, and he returned the smile tentatively. “I didn’t mean you wouldn’t be a help to me, but rather that I would be demanding too much of your time for a project that doesn’t concern you.”

“You are wrong, Combeferre,” Enjolras said sternly, and Combeferre stilled. “You are not the only one that places a high value on the free spread of knowledge. This is a matter that concerns all of us -- work that is just as or more vital than what I would otherwise be doing. To speak to me about, to impress upon me the importance of the education of mankind, is very well and good. But then, do not deny me the opportunity to contribute what I can to the ideals that I share with you.”

There was a moment of silence in which Enjolras watched some immense, unreadable expression pass through Combeferre’s eyes, and his cheeks take on a reddish hue. Then Combeferre smiled, warm and broad and gentle. “It is impossible to deny you,” he said, and covered Enjolras’s hand with his free one. “Alright. I accept.”

They worked easily together, if not as quietly as usual. It was not the painstaking work that Combeferre had described, either. Perhaps it required a certain amount of concentration, but then it was hard not to concentrate when Combeferre lit up with excitement each time he asked a clarifying question, and even more so when he finished a sentence, or provided an explanation of his own based on what Combeferre had said earlier.

By the end of the day, they had gone through Combeferre’s treatise only once in the entirety, but in the process Combeferre had created a full glossary of terms to add at the beginning, and a plethora of notes, revisions, and extensions throughout. Enjolras had developed a much greater understanding of (and a certain mixture of admiration and disgust for) the methods and science behind pathology -- but more than that, he had added to his understanding of Combeferre, and a little of himself.

Combeferre was undoubtedly a brilliant, devoted doctor, who empathized with his patients and sought greater understanding of their ailments. His pursuit of the path of medicine, and his devotion to progress (in general, but here specifically) was to be admired. Nevertheless, his true talent was in teaching, in sharing his knowledge with others -- and with the world. Witnessing the satisfaction that Combeferre gained from this project, Enjolras felt within his soul a deep sense of contentment, a great joy that moved him more personally than the knowledge that he was contributing to it himself.

When they went to bed that night, after their edits but before attempting a re-write, Combeferre fell asleep almost immediately after removing his spectacles, and Enjolras stayed awake for a little while. He felt the warmth of Combeferre’s body close beside him, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and watched the easy expression on his face that came from sleep after absolute exhaustion.

Secure in the knowledge that, with Combeferre, he did not have to choose between personal satisfaction and his commitment to his ideals, Enjolras could embrace both. After another moment, he did embrace Combeferre, tucked his chin against his head, and fell asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> François Gabriel Boisseau and, in particular, his ["A Treatise on Cholera Morbus: Or, Researches on the Symptoms, Nature, and Treatment of the Disease: And on the Different Means of Avoiding it"](https://books.google.com/books/about/A_Treatise_on_Cholera_Morbus_Or_Research.html?id=9yJAAAAAYAAJ) (wherein he discusses the need to make medical works understandable, makes some snarky comments about Med Students These Days, and deals very scientifically and empirically with discussing cholera) has always sort-of inspired my Combeferre -- and here, although he's not named [as the "well-respected doctor"], he's really directly inspiring him. I do think Combeferre would appreciate his efforts in a number of ways.


End file.
